


Phantasma

by minium



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Earn Your Happy Ending, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Heavy Angst, M/M, Minor Claude von Riegan & Hilda Valentine Goneril, Minor Dedue Molinaro & Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minium/pseuds/minium
Summary: Phantoms laughing behind us, you offered your hand.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Edelgard von Hresvelg, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 22
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue: The Sun and the Moon.

**Author's Note:**

> Byleth doesn't exist in this AU.  
> Please leave Canon at the door.

# Foreword.

* * *

The most comforting stories are often pure fabrication. That is to say this _isn’t_ one such tale— a fairy tale.

And as it’s written, nothing about our story was _easy_.

_It was you._

We hurt each other. (Oh god, how we hurt each other, fought one another).

_It was me._

We loved each other.

And I wouldn’t change a word.

# Prologue: The Sun and the Moon.

* * *

_It rested_ — all on that unfamiliar gaze— hopes, dreams threading through, underlying everything— a heavy weight, pressing into him, roving over him: that eye. He pressed his lips tighter together, holding back any ‘impertinent’ comment he could have made (of which more and more built by the moment), the effort to do so more than he had even thought to expect when that first olive branch had arrived in his hands all that time ago. 

“You’ll do.” 

That’s all he said. All that time standing his ground, spine stiffened into restless tension, and that’s all his grandfather had to say to him. 

The first words ever spoken between the pair were never even given a moment to breathe before he was urged and ushered out— before he could even utter a response, say _anything_ to the grandfather who would sooner pretend he didn’t exist, desperation on both their parts the only reason behind their acquaintance. 

The widened gaze only greeted him for a short while before the stranger’s smile smoothed over with a pretty, but obviously practised smile. She wasn’t the only one to do so; the expression resting on his face was much the same. For they both knew the only reason for this introduction— a visit from this noble girl around the same age as he. 

Still, it was a beautiful picture she painted. “So are you the rumoured heir?” Ah, the first words out of her mouth— _of course_. With a lock of rose-colored hair— a giveaway to her heritage if he hadn’t already beforehand been informed— twisted around her fingers, her focus firm on scrutinization— (of him, of them, of all these hidden dances drilled into their heads in the absence of anything real, anything _honest_ ). 

His smile quirked wider in the face of such obvious interest. “There’s rumors about me?” An inane question. There’s no way there wouldn’t be— countless stories, opinions, mere words constricting his movements and they’d barely revealed him for more than a mere week. 

“It’s like a fairy tale; a lost prince found.” And the chances of someone else taking power plummeting with just a whisper of his name. It was pure hilarity— the prince to a kingdom he hadn’t even known the name of summers prior was he. What a laugh— that he had to suppress. What a _joke_ — that he couldn’t ever share. 

Seemingly innocent eyes locked solely onto his— ah, of course, the play must go on; can’t have him failing the role he had himself _asked_ for. With the briefest, most fleeting press of lips kissing the skin on the back of her hand, he raised his gaze with a grin, “You seem to know much of me, almost too much I dare say, but I don’t even have the pleasure of knowing your name.” 

This time, the smile that bloomed on her face, while faintly mocking, was unquestioningly _real_. 

And she was at ease. 

And _so_ — was he. 

“We must change that, shall we? I wouldn’t mind getting closer acquainted with such a dashing fellow.” With an impish smile, she winked and shared, “Hilda.” 

And he knew they would be fast ‘friends.’ 

Was he— was he— was he at ease? He didn’t— 

_know_. 

_He never knew anything after all, did he?_

It was a circus with him as the main attraction. Thrown to the wolves with nary a thing to keep himself afloat: etiquette, history, politics, economics, even something as inane as favored dances, and on and on was the impossibly long list of things he supposedly knew of the land as unfamiliar as the dark side of the moon. 

Yet. He could’ve gotten through all of that— _he could have_. 

But. Every casual utterance of the name supposedly _his_ sparked anew this ache. After every occurrence— it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him, 

yet it _was_. 

All the time spent denying and now there was no room left for the shaking of his head. 

Claude von Riegan wore his face, borrowed his smile, and with every word— the horror he had refused to consider sunk deeper— down to the very marrow. Who was he supposed to be anyway? No matter how forcibly he pushed back against it, he had willingly slipped this mask onto his face with willing hands. No matter how much he denied, this was who he was. 

Arriving on a day as unassuming as any other— which is to say, not at all— with his admission into the Officer’s Academy held in firm grip, Claude left the Riegan residence without even the slightest memory of his grandfather’s half-sunken face. 

It was well past any reasonable hour; he knew the moment he snapped out of his daze. Noticing the plate of food long gone cold at his side, no doubt the compliments of Dedue, he let gravity overcome; the sinking of his head— the heavy weight he was no longer capable of bearing, he let a slump overtake the normally straight-line of his shoulders. 

And he was— 

_tired_. 

Tired of walls threatening to cave at any moment, opportune or not. Tired of shooing thoughts pressing him, clawing, pulling him under the unrelenting covers of dusk; screams long ignored, muted by the all-encompassing blanket of his own silence. 

When would he ever see anything other than this? 

A rat running inside the same wheel. Unceasingly. It was as if… _he would never get anywhere at all_. 

Craving rest, he stretched out a hand, hoping for— _begging for_ any kind of answer to truths refusing to reconcile. And with every waking thought tasting like abandonment. It all seemed— 

hopeless. 

Where could he go from here? 

He didn’t even 

know who— 

know where. 

_What could someone as pathetic as him even hope to accomplish in the first place?_

Dedue handed him the expected letter— Dimitri with hand held already outstretched grasped it with desperation his companion raised an eyebrow his way for. It crinkled; letting out a breath, he tried loosening the tension now stirring, taking hold of thoughts never far. 

This was the start. 

This was also the end. 

If he couldn’t even reach the slightest sliver of anything, he— 

_—couldn’t do anything more than this._

Later, beyond the sun sinking under earth, lightly trailing unfeeling fingers, back and forth, starting again, and once more, and then unceasingly— 

he was never _satisfied_. 

No matter how many times he disrupted, over the surface of still waters, as above, as below, the perfect image of pale moon reflected. 

For a moment, he had— he had been sure— someone once loved and now unfamiliar— 

One second frozen in time, loved and unchanged, the next second— 

he was gone, gone, 

_gone_. 


	2. First Meeting.

# Chapter 1: First Meeting.

* * *

Dimitri stared. He couldn’t have helped himself. Breaching the gap, the hand open to him wasn’t one expected. 

Skin touching skin, and finally, for the first time, something within— always restless— _settled_. 

And he looked across. And the only thing he saw, to the exclusion of everything else— 

it was _her_. 

(Only her). 

_Of course, it was._

He wanted to— run up to her, hug her, exclaim the joy found finally seeing her thriving, living, _alive_. But she didn’t catch his eye. _She didn’t even see him at all._ Eyes continually shifting away from him, and it shouldn’t have felt like— they way he longed for her to— why wasn’t it him the first thing she sought— an arrow to the spine was all that missed gaze _was_. He wanted to go over— let out all those years spent wondering, waiting, worrying— scream, voicing the torrent residing always, never leaving, never alone, in his head, in his heart. But he knew such sentiment would be the last thing welcomed by her. The last thing wanted: her to turn away, to look away from him. 

_He wanted her to look back at him._

Disappointment simmered, but understanding soothed fallen hopes. This wasn’t the place for such things; he knew better than most. _He only wanted her— broken, barely-seeing, dragging on, he was, and she was— the only horizon he couldn’t ever reach for._

It was only him tangled up, still bleeding in this mire for one— holding out the reaches of a heart worthless— set aflame with thoughts— hopes, dreams underlying everything. He could never shake them; never be rid of this— sorrow shaking through his frame, tears flowing prompted by midnight thoughts silent against the beckoning backdrop of night sky. The only comfort he’d ever allow. On his own— he would come to terms— with this, with _everything_. 

He looked away. 

_(It was the only thing he could do. The only thing he knew.)_

As if cued, hush fell over the crowd surrounding. Dimitri followed the source of noise still uncontained, finding himself face-to-face with someone he’d never before seen. 

The first thought floated was how everything about this stranger was just— _striking._ He didn’t know how to articulate what had him so taken from first breath, sunset painting him in hues more akin to a painting than anything close to harsh-hued reality. 

It then dawned on him who this likely was. He averted eager eyes, but green eyes chased his gaze, and he found himself staring into that unfamiliar, unexpected face. It was all too strange— the way an heir for House Riegan came into existence out of nowhere. But etiquette held his tongue in its grasp, all the questions crowding his head didn’t so as much flicker on his face. 

“So we finally meet. Claude von Riegan—”He kept speaking on; Dimitri didn’t hear a word. It was— _confirmation_ ,and it should have been _nothing_ ; he should’ve been able to grasp that hand held out as if it was nothing. Yet something unknown stayed his hand for a second too long. With the minute twitch of the other boy’s expression, he had no doubt his hesitation hadn’t escaped notice. 

So caught like a fool in a maze, in this the gaze that wouldn’t leave him, the one he seemed incapable of looking away from, embarrassment had time to pool and mount. With his customary self-introduction rote, he tried to slow any unprovoked quickening within his chest with what remaining wherewithal he still had. 

“...It’s a pleasure,” he finished, words still ringing a bit too high, breath extended. 

Not responding for a time, the Riegan heir looked into one of his eyes, then the other, before slowly leaning back, hands on his hips, an indolent smile curving his lips. “Nice to meet you,” were the words shaped, but Dimitri’s heart leapt, raised in errant warning. 

Nothing welcoming in the least, nothing about him _seemed welcoming in the least_ , open to anything Dimitri could have shared. Yet with his gaze still expectant, attention only served to sear further embarrassment— red heat revelatory on-top cheeks a brand for all to bear witness. An irresolute swell of— _something_ tugged at the prince’s throat. He swallowed fast, almost choking on half-released breath. He bowed lightly, ducking his face and consequently hiding his ill-ease. “Likewise.” 

The other boy’s brows only rose, but he said nothing further, turning away as if his attention had been fickle by nature, as if he hadn’t just held Dimitri suspended in a kind of agony entirely unfamiliar. Still, thankful for the respite, he let out held breath behind that turned back. 

Of course, he knew how much this meant, how much he needed his audience taken in— or at least accepting of his falsehoods (the irony of which _was not lost on him_ ). 

Mere expectation already had him this twisted, twined up; torment a knot affixed into the movement of his hands, the curl of a brow— it was like he was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding his helplessness— posture not meant for the show he would soon put on. He didn’t know why. It almost seemed like waiting, _~~hoping~~_. 

For someone to _save_ him? 

For someone to _stop_ him? 

Claude was the one determined to seal his own fate and all these hopeless wants still keeping on, _keeping on_ were only the wondering of a lost soul with a kingdom not returned, that would _never_ be returned to him. Never him. Not anymore. Not in the first place. They kept whispering in his ear. He didn’t listen. He _didn’t_ listen. Claude just wanted these thoughts to away, leave him be— leave him, leave him _alone_. 

Let this farce become reality— 

( _his entire life was a farce_ ), 

it was time to start again. 

Dedue riding along, next to him, and it was as if the world righted itself anew. His friend hadn’t deigned to speak anything into being yet, but just his presence radiated reassurance— and it returned to him, slowly, then all at once: his oft-forgotten composure. 

Who he was. 

What he must always _remember_. 

It was just his luck that an ambush crashed through that fragile peace as if it was a mirage conjured from his— desperation to escape, to regain even just a bit of himself. 

Still, it was to say, a part of him welcomed the chance— to let loose, to forget in the lull battle spelled. Still, a part of him remained terrified. Dimitri was never sure which would overcome— the wind would change; he would be born anew. It was the most terrifying thing he ever knew. 

It was one thing to know that the combat capabilities of the people of Fodlan were much more than derided by the people of his homeland, it was quite another to witness what the best the continent had on offer displaying their skills. 

From the rear, hidden as he was, he could see it all: the way the princess strode confidently forwards, axe held aloft as if it didn’t weigh a thing, the prince twirling his lance in deadly dance, without need for thought— seemingly no deliberation at all as he pivoted from one enemy to the next. On their shoulders, they carried the battlefield as naturally as breathing. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised; but somehow, he found himself (covertly) gaping in awe at the sight. 

From the corner of his view— admiration cut short, he saw the path of potential end. 

Darting his eyes, his gaze landed on the prince, a little bit too far, but enough, enough— he would make this _enough_. 

Focusing in on the threat, he called for Dimitri. He didn’t wait; instead, notching a poisoned-tipped arrow. Letting it fly, somehow, even with all the distance between, the arrow sailed— 

_—enough._

Sailing true, it pierced the bandit’s thigh. With that sword clattering to the ground, so too did his shoulders fall, slackening— loosened— Claude saw the flash of blond— letting out a shaking sigh, relief staggered his limbs. 

This could have been a tragedy. 

He didn’t know why the thought blared so loudly, so suddenly. 

Around him. Within him. (Encompassing him). 

Claude had only just met the girl. Why exactly had this shaken something loose, close to rattling, inside his chest? 

He didn’t have an answer for this unnameable fear holding him constricted. 

_(She saw it all. She saw through it all. Her eyes filled with tears.)_


	3. Reach.

# Chapter 2: Reach.

* * *

Lightheadedness above, this sweet askance of surrender lulled. Once spun and unearthed, and now— freefalling back into himself, still, unchanged sky stared back at him. He wanted so desperately to match that light glare for glare. 

It wasn’t a loss. A breath of churning, newly-awakened _something_ , but it still wasn’t enough to tempt. Even through the grain of time passed, he could remember how it felt. Never fading, at least, never completely. Pain like that— all he could do: _carry it_. Forgetting wasn’t something that could be borne by him. With no one else to remember the light held between them all, it was him, and him alone, left carrying on that torch. 

Revolution had thrummed, singing, flooding through warmed blood. Sweat coated his back, but the fire stoked behind had extinguished with that final cry. In that moment, those hands beckoning above had called for, stole strength. 

With flame exhausted— cooler and cooler still, air danced on his skin. He breathed out smoke haltingly, shoulders tensing and releasing, uncertain and unknown. As it always did, alive, he thrived, lance in hand— and after, Dimitri was left breathing a little less, a little more shallowly than before. 

Riposte was a game for two, but with three— it was only: uneasy glances, skittering gazes, and the tip of first words held back (but only _just_ ). 

Why was it only him left in the dust? Reality blared _so_ loudly in his ears and they were going nowhere fast. He didn’t want to hear— any of those words anymore. He just wanted to see, to be _seen_ — that vision stretching out before him: golden sky, heat felt but still untasted. Raining down through the gaps in green stretching above, sunlight streaming so invitingly, he raised his head on instinct alone, and almost forgetting himself, he started to reach out for _it_. 

(But as he was, he never _would_ ). 

Reality blared in his ears. Claude snapped awake, smiling idly to himself. 

Awake. 

There were only the three of them together here. He didn’t have to look far at all to see one of the others; his figure— it was _unmistakable_. Something that couldn’t be known, a face entirely unfamiliar, the unmissable view of blood— it was unreality, displacing princely completely. With his gaze locked above, they stood worlds apart. Spine arched, head raised, sun kissing skin, he stood unmovable, unreachable. Claude wanted to know; wanted to know what exactly it was he saw, eyes blown wide. 

Approaching him seemed almost impossible. Something within his chest whined at disturbing that minute serenity, and after all, there were the three of them together here. He tore his gaze away, reluctant but resolute. 

He slowly turned his head to see the princess calmly looking back at him. Opening his mouth but— _freezing_ before he could take another breath, those eyes staring back at him— used to being stared straight through— notions already made, seeing only Crest and Crest alone— yet this _girl_. Edelgard. Eyes clear as if she could see straight through— to hidden sun, she smiled his way, and that more than anything else she could have done, terrified him down to his very heart. 

The stomping of hooves broke the moment (if terror bleeding an edge could be called a _moment_ ). Their waylaid knights (knights that had so far only managed to get separated when actually needed and had yet to protect anything) had found their way back to their side. Akin to a stream flooding in, they were suddenly everywhere. Surrounding them was noise once more, silence broken as if it hadn’t even existed in the first place. He smiled, standing taller, curling his fingers tighter together in their clasp. 

The Knight, Geralt he recalled, led the way. He followed. Yet this feeling of discontent— as if he’d left something unfinished, soon to be forgotten, nagged, pacing the fringes of thought— where light would never reach. His instincts ringing a chorus, _they screamed at him_. 

But what could he do? It was nameless no matter how loudly it cried. He, out of everyone, more than anyone, knew keenly how precarious his position was. Claude bowed his head, smile stretching tighter. 

So far from that castle, and still, imagining only grew— once grey and vague, colors flooded— pouring out, painting a picture only blossoming clearer. 

Claude didn’t know, but he would— get _there_ eventually. It had to be, had to be— _him_. Whispering to him, that taunting, tormenting voice, absolution he couldn’t deny— he would never reach those walls, climb those towers. Staring up at things unreachable was the only future he was capable of reaching with his own hands. 

He needed, hungered for this rise. It _had to be_ inevitable. He would never believe he wouldn’t reach that one, single, _brilliant_ point. He wouldn’t believe in anyone else’s words. It was the only option. Promises didn’t mean a thing. 

Everything had gone quiet. All he could hear: his own breathing. He knew; he was on the precipice of— something that would change him forever. As soon as he arrived at that door, the edge of this cliff waited. 

He had _always_ wanted to reach for something, touch something outside of himself. This siren call of opportunity— it _called_ to him. 

Restlessness resolving into conviction, _it was time for the freefall._


	4. A Requiem for Truth (unasked for and unseen).

# Chapter 3: A Requiem for Truth (unasked for and unseen).

* * *

Gazing into their shining eyes, diving into those welcoming arms, it all felt— _unearned_. Slipping into that life once lived, welcome prepared for a him that didn’t exist. (Not anymore and never again). Eyes continually overlooked evident truth— again, again, again— eager eyes followed, sought fiction. Refusal where no one could be blamed— for who would forsake the prince of their memories for the wretch standing before them? 

All he could do: smile— pretend, pretend, _pretend_ — in a life that wasn’t _his_. A puzzle piece never fitting into this tapestry sown with hands that didn’t belong to him— _he didn’t belong to them_ — where was he supposed to go? Those hands that reached out for— that prince would never be returned. 

As if he sensed Dimitri’s shift in mood, Dedue came to his shoulder— and _stayed_. It was all he needed to raise his head. _Ah_. Of course. His _reason_. Vow unspoken, hanging, dwarfing his figure, surrounding, (enclosing) his shoulders, the only thing keeping legs firmly rooted. 

What more was there to say? There was only one thing to do. 

When he took his leave, stray eyes followed his back— what had been said a thousand times needed no repetition. What he had become. Wasn’t something anyone could envy him for. 

Rose-scented lull. That sweet aroma assaulted; his senses disarrayed, and he almost— pushed it all _away_. Anything true, real— anything still his— Claude pushed it down where no one, even him, _even him_ , would be able to find the slightest trace of anything. 

It had been working perfectly all through now, so why was it as if— 

Sluggishness crept into his movements, sudden, unescapable tiredness settling over his limbs. He felt— 

_apart_. 

She was leading him ever forward. 

He was diving ever deeper. 

All he could see— the smooth surface getting further, further _away_ from his grasp, sinking in waters too turbulent. Breath escaping, his eyes blinked once, twice, and then fell finally to half-mast and _stayed_. 

_‘You don’t belong here.’_

Claude gasped loudly, stride abruptly halted. Trying to slow his breathing, choking on the reality of dried, deadened air. Was it all futile after all? Breath growing shorter, the struggle borne, and the further he sunk, diving underneath feeling, the deeper he held suspended. Air thinning, it rushed over him, a reel of every stolen moment seen. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t— 

“Are you alright?” 

Head shooting up on reflex alone, concerned eyes found his. Parting his lips, he gasped for response, but the excuses usually so glib on his tongue were nowhere to be found. Already, he knew it was too late. This daze wouldn’t be an escape. Left behind, looking behind, forwards, to the side— there wouldn’t be, wouldn’t be _anyone_. 

She watched him for a moment, brows furrowed, before hesitantly approaching. Avidly, he tracked her movements, desperation still cycling this torrent raging barely concealed in his chest. 

“Hey, hey, I’m right here in front of you, Claude. I’m with you.” He inhaled sharply. _What more would they ask him to spare?_

“Let’s count together… one… two… breathe with me… that’s good… stay with me now… three… four…” _What more would he have to leave behind?_

Her eyes never moved away from his. Claude could only… follow her words… 

_breathe_. 

~~Was suffering all this amounted to?~~

All he could do— stare. 

Woken by a nightmare, seeking comfort, and where it led— _heart in his throat, held suspended, frozen over its glass cradle_. 

_His mother extended her hand._

Everything was— it was all painted a vivid, inescapable red. Like condemnation, it dripped down her dress, stained her hands, marred her beautiful face. But still, her smile remained fixed in place. Tears still pooling, dripping a never-ending path down her face, mixing red, red, _red_. “I really am sorry. I am _so sorry_ , my dear.” 

What was this? What was— what was _this_? For what reason would she ever apologize? 

Fear a death grip, he slipped out of the room unnoticed by the two parties embracing inside. 

_All he could do—_

Khalid didn’t want to see anything anymore. 

— _was let it fall._

A flash of red. And all he could do— 

_follow_. 

~~(Always chasing the backs of people staring straight through, never seeing, never believing, unthinkingly and without hesitation. That’s all his life amounted to.)~~

“Pleased to meet you, Prince Dimitri.”

Unmoored, he rocked with it.

No recognition shined behind those oh-so-familiar eyes.

His silence had long passed polite. Yet. _He didn’t know what to say._

With the tilt of her head, rays of light temporarily took any expression she held away from his eyes— he thanked it (he _reviled_ it).

Pleased to _fucking_ meet you, indeed.

He just didn’t know what to say, so he ended up not even uttering anything at all.

_(How many other things had he let slip by without so much as a chasing comment? So much time spent locked in the company of dried air and he didn’t have anything to show for it.)_

After all these years and her words still whispered in his ears. That _voice_ — how could he ever forget?

In the circle of broken things he had caused, the one thing to be thankful for was how his poison hadn’t reached her. But come to face her denying those summer days completely? Something thought shattered beyond repair, reeled, recoiling with sharp pain he wasn’t supposed to be capable of anymore.

Hadn’t he—

left this weakness behind him by now?

Hadn’t he left—

it all— _everything_ behind?

Just to live— what more was there for him to part with after all? He didn’t have anything on offer.

He knew. He _knew_.

Let her run away.

He wouldn’t stop a thing.

Let him— _live_ a little.

Please.


	5. You, Me, and All Our Friends.

# Chapter 4: You, Me, and All Our Friends.

* * *

One-by-one, he avidly watched as Hilda introduced— recalling files studied, matching mannerisms, alliances, behavior from notes to the living, breathing people before him—

the Golden Deer.

These people were _his_ now and he had no intention of failing them—

failing _anyone_ again.

Hilda caught his eye. He curved his lips an almost inestimable amount and she beamed brightly back at him. Claude didn’t know why _that_ cemented surety regaining composure; but, for once, he didn’t feel the need to question it.

Shot his way, the briefest flicker indicated through the questioning tilt of her brow; yet clearly seen: the way she gripped the arm wound around hers. Shaking his head once, he left; no need for one burden more, Claude already owed far too much.

With the door closing behind his back, in noisy finality, awareness of himself, of all, of any other path sealed to him now, he didn’t look back; he wouldn’t turn— Claude walked this new road taking one step, then another, and quickly— earnestly so— shoulders loosened; ease came.

Seeking light, that vast sea— stretching out before him, he knew; he had navigated all seas previously encountered. But still, he stared. Why was he stood still before, shaken in front of this one? When had he ever needed anyone to guide him? When had anyone ever bothered to? Familiarity could be learned. An anchor, he could find. Excuses and worries clashed, yet none could explain. Prickling a heart held full, the way this felt—

It was _new_. He was _here_.

Shattering glass of a silence that couldn't last, a familiar (oft leading to nothing but irritation) call sounded behind. Shuttering his face, he didn’t, _wouldn’t_ turn, but without permission— suspicion swam in the other boy’s eyes; peering so intently as if he could divine answers if only he searched relentlessly— _enough_. The Gloucester Heir hadn’t wasted any time getting him alone.

 _Of course,_ he’d never be left alone.

“Claude.” The call of that name was a bitter taste, but _oh_ — the way this boy spoke _it_ — as if the cusp of a curse.

No matter how he swallowed it down, bitterness steeped, _lived_ within. “That’s what they call me.” Summoning up guileless expression, he returned suspicion with the way he hid rancour best.

Predictably, the little lord’s eyes narrowed. Yet obviously, even with their short acquaintance, he had learned not to jump at the lure. How _disappointing_ ; this avenue closed to him already. Instead, with puckered lips, cutting straight to the heart— the only characteristic about this boy he even half-way respected, Lorenz repeated the same tired refrain, “Your Crest may legitimize you as part of House Riegan, but that doesn’t grant qualification to lead.”

Ah yes, the _Crest of Riegan_. The only reason he hadn’t been pushed out into the cold was something he held but hadn’t known. And would he ever have known? That intrinsic part of him that all had sung _talent—_ but _oh,_ that wasn’t it, wasn’t _it—_ it signaled his ‘ _belonging_ ’ to this place all along.

 _‘Where were you all this time? Do you even know anything at all? I’ve been here. I was always here. Where were you?’_ Were the words bit down but heard anyway; flying free in-between pursed lips, they clouded every encounter between.

What a life this was. What a life he’d led. Lies piled on top of others, begetting more, and he didn’t even know which direction to turn. The Gloucester Heir still waited for an answer. If he let hilarity take him, he’d laugh and laugh and laugh himself sick. _Oh, what, what could he say?_ For he knew quite well, this was the last link he could afford to break.

 _Yet._ They weren’t ready for him. If he was the prince of fools— _they weren’t ready for him._ This was only the start. They’d watch, watch, and watch, endlessly steps behind, but never _know_.

Claude’s smile bloomed slow; spoke even slower, making sure to lend weight— of all the things he planned and wouldn’t share, “And pray tell, what can I do for you, Lorenz? Or was that all you had to say?”

Might the murderer’s son have some answers? Either way the knife fell, he had to spin opportunity.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, inside this little pause wherein breath held slow, he met matched eyes and hesitation curled, rigid in his spine.

An uncountable moment passed in which no words took space, then _his_ lips parted. An action that only caused the prince to stiffen further. He couldn’t face this now. He didn’t want to face any—

Yet hesitation bred invitation. Swallowing down the urge to avert his gaze, he— turned into the words— curling the ends of his lips, blanking his eyes— Dimitri heard _every single word_ his friend had to spar _._

Burning like coals, endless, bottomless smoke suffusing, what could he even say? Truth stared resentfully back at him.

It was only exactly what he deserved.

Shadowing his steps, whispers creeping, crawling— up, up, _up_ — his neck (vulnerable and bare). Questions erupted and flickered off as quickly— the dart of his eyes left no space (he couldn’t afford to). Dimitri unable to cry wolf— these nightmares, no one wanted. It was only him. Only him indulging reminisce instead of casting off, _forgetting_. All wrong; his hands were stained in all the wrong shade and no one would believe his words. How could he— could he ever— _escape._

Fool. He was a fool. Making promises that couldn’t be kept was all he was _for._ Any angle, wherever he turned, the same blank faces. Where he couldn’t find any listening ears; this a hell he couldn’t deny. Not that he, even if he could stand to, deserved the solace of averted gaze. Shadows with so much trust laced. In someone as uncertain as him? Utterly pointless. He couldn’t find— this mire only sunk deeper with every breath, every promise remembered. What precisely had he accomplished from then? Chasing fire, he inhaled only poison; and worse still, he breathed out the smoke.

Incompetent. Follow him anywhere? A desperation fueled farce— of the him lacking, always lacking— there was never any space to _breathe._ Sooner or later, _he too_ with Dimitri— they’d be drowning, drowning, _drowning together_ — and still, he was too selfish to give up steady ground freely offered.

Welcome to the him that would only cause undoing. Welcome to the wretch trusted, the one dragging under any soul close.

And he would. _Of course_ , he would.

Driving on, all paths before him tilted dangerously on their axis; even with the stumbling of feeble, lost legs, going forwards, he kept going forwards to inevitable end. Lit with welcoming warmth, it drew inside. The prince wasn’t a fool. He knew quite well the most beautiful truths were often the cruelest lies.

_He just didn’t care._

Didn’t want to scream. No, _this feeling_ — it wasn’t a _scream_. Akin to a wound still sluggishly bleeding on, bated breath lurking underneath, howling through thought, chill suffusing, twirling around most vulnerable— as if just a whisper and he’d be brittle enough to shatter into pieces unconnected.

Why was he— _so_ _cold_ —

In futile embrace, brittle fingers bit into upper arms, but there was no one here. There was no one. Dimitri sat alone, himself a spectre in thoughts that didn’t concern him, fruitlessly searching for something that had no answers.

 _Don’t worry._ Hymn to the dead.

 _Don’t worry._ Refrain on repeat.

He needed no reminder. After all, how could he ever forget? He wouldn’t let them escape. Until it was the end of him, he’d give chase to all those devils promised. It was— _frustrating_ — how they hid, eluded searching eyes. _Soon._ Darting his eyes, trying to make sense of this mess of organization— _soon_ — his fingers traced down the spines of books holding titles never seen, pages yellowed with age. Hope woke with a flicker. Yet. He couldn’t sustain. Just a thought of inevitable disappointment and he stood crushed. Before even the husks of excitement formed. Every time, this storm was the same.

Sense woken with a start. The sound of footsteps stirred, alarm prickling up his spine. Should he stay or should he go? Footfalls closing in, the waves swayed in the beats within. He never changed. Stacks of books set around him— he wanted that barricade— and he clung harder to driftwood still.

“Hello?” The call echoed along the walls, scattering any stillness they could have held. His shoulders caved inwards. He hadn’t made any noise but swiftly, a head turned his way. Dimitri swallowed once— seeing green, echoing familiarity. “Oh.”

‘ _Oh._

‘It’s you,’ he thought but didn’t say.

Breaking the standoff, the Alliance Heir raised a white flag writ in the form of friendly face. Obviously an intent to ease, yet the quicking of his heart didn’t stop, didn’t pause. He didn’t want his shivering, clinging figure ( _barely breaking water as he was_ ) seen. He didn’t want the sting of salt-soaked words. Didn’t want the roar of, the harsh battering of wintery winds. _He never wanted to be like this._ All he was: a pile of regrets that had lost worth before he had even realized any existed. Torrent rushing up his throat— always it washed away words he couldn’t, wouldn’t ever say.

Claude’s eyes darted to the side for a moment before inexplicably— widening his smile— under the low light, creases in his skin almost cutting— sharp and oh so _breakable_ , he took a step, and then another, “Ah, and may I inquire as to why you’re spending a sleepless night, your _highness_?”

He bit his lips, struggling to hold back, suppressing what he truly meant to— yet couldn't, wouldn’t— say,

‘ _Please leave and never turn in my direction again._ ’

Brittling, his smile curled into itself. Drumming the fingers of free hand— he needed to _move_ , away to where he didn’t have to keep up a pretence only cracking; eventually, _eventually_ , it’d only— _fall_ , falling into true face. _What answer could he possibly give?_

Claude shrugged as if he hadn’t expected a response from him in the first place. Which. He— the prince opened his mouth— the other boy walked even closer; and then abruptly pressing his lips together, Dimitri determinedly averted eager eyes, shutting away any useless rambling he could have given voice.

But Claude didn’t stop his stride, the chair beside him was taken in an instant; he was beside him in an instant. How to react. How to _act_. Staying his eyes, Dimitri tightened his grip on the book held, unwilling to betray more than he had already.

“Hey.” The softness warming Claude’s voice unexpected, tension eased out of his shoulders with that one, single _word_.

The waves rushed in, overhead, unfurling wilder, so loudly— it pierced his ears, that unwelcome burst of pain. “Are you alright?” The book fell from his hands and he— could only stare forwards, confusion knotting his tongue. He didn’t know what to say. _He never knew what to say._ But the ruse was already gone, there was nothing held between them now except for his still-averted gaze.

The prince combed shaking figures through unwashed hair. Grasping for even the wisps of princely demeanor, he summoned friendliest smile. “Looking for someone?” The next words he didn’t say, but the silence spoke as loudly as if he had gone ahead and voiced incredulity, _‘At this hour?’_

When the pause between them lengthened even more, he was sure his best attempt wasn’t much at all. Still, he suppressed the desire to duck his head. He had aimed for approachability and only ended up with uncharacteristic rudeness.

“I wasn’t actually.” After a moment, he clarified, “Looking for anyone.” His voice lowered to a smooth murmur— had he heard someone? “But now. I’ve found _you_.”

And so, in turn, matching murmur for murmur, lowering the timbre of his own voice, automatic protest on his tongue, he spoke, “Please, Dimitri is fine,” before his voice faded to nothing. Unprepared, he had spoken back to the other boy before he had even noticed his mouth moving.

The prince (usually) would’ve sounded the retreat with this avenue reached, yet he stayed rooted to his seat. He had already embarrassed himself enough for one evening after all. Why not see why Claude insisted on his presence? This time he tempered his tongue before his voice sounded, but words still too bluntly rang— discordant and unneeded, “Why are you here?” He winced— the question coming out fraught with uncertainty. The longer he stayed near— how much lower was he wont to fall?

Yet the other boy stayed intent in a way he couldn’t name. “Some interesting whisperings on these winds. Have you not _heard?_ ”

“I often find indulging in rumors to be a mistake.” The rebuke in his tone— _why couldn’t he stop his mouth moving?_

Glittering eyes, and that’s when he knew he’d lost— for he hadn’t even noticed the turn of his head, and now he _knew_ — he didn’t want to turn away, _to look away from him._ And what did that say about him? That he would cling to any bit of light, _any false sun offered._ “You’d do well to listen to these.” He paused then, seemingly gathering his words, then continuing, voice urgent, tone _soft_ , “Words spoken only too freely. Rebellion courted openly, tauntingly, even in the heart of the Church.”

As concerning as that likely was, the way Claude was looking at him— as if there was something he was desperately trying to impart to him _specifically_. “Why are you telling me—”

“—Lord Lonato’s raising an uprising.” The statement— sharp, all the more effective without the layering of perfumed words.

Dimitri didn’t even have enough moisture in his throat left to chance a swallow. The implications of that one sentence _alone_ —

Yet the other house leader didn’t stop his barrage, didn’t wait for him to even start to sift disorganized thought— dim panic formed, only blaring louder as time ticked on— “It involves you, does it not?” Claude cocked his head to the side, smile small and private— and yet, _he_ knew and Dimitri _knew._ “Or should I say _it involves one of your own?_ ” He knew very well he had Dimitri’s full attention now, that he had— “I simply thought it’d be pertinent to mention now that I’ve got you _all_ to myself.” And any untrusted, always keen, always _listening_ ears doubtlessly turned away.

But thoughts of gains and losses only dimly lit. What echoed in his head was just one thing.

_Ashe._

The prince fell into himself. The warmly lit backdrop of setting, of _place_ — it all faded to black. Capable of hearing only one thing: silver words dancing _so invitingly_ in his ears. “Would you rather ask forgiveness or _permission?_ ” They both knew— there was only one option open to him.

How did he know? Why did— He came back to himself then. Suddenly whole and new, but still, somehow, _missing._ “Say that I don’t believe you’re imparting information out of the naked concern nursed in your heart?”

Leaning close, lips kissing the skin of his ear, his voice was _so_ quiet, layered with something Dimitri didn’t want to examine too closely, “In that case, I would say that there’s more to you than I ever expected to see.” A breath, and then _so quietly,_ “A favor owed from the Crown Prince of Faerghus, from _you_ , is simply too high a prize to let slip.”

Dimitri, parted his lips, tried to continue, but Claude rested one lone, single finger onto his lips. Such a brazen act, he’d never seen someone so easily deny— in the shock that moment meant, he didn’t press. In no time at all— their conversation had seemed to barely last a moment and yet— already ended— Claude stood, walking away, shooting him one last grin over his shoulder as a parting remark— one that spoke of nothing but _trouble._

**Author's Note:**

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